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revdorothyl at 08:21pm on 30/06/2003
revdorothyl at 08:21pm on 30/06/2003Being the third installment of my on-going discussions with a phantom Freud. Here, Freud finally persuades me to talk about my dreams, and my problems with authority figures become ever more apparent.
Freud: You're back. I wasn't sure you would be. Many people, after a breakthrough such as we had last week, are tempted to 'rest on their laurels,' so to speak, rather than risk stirring up more unsettling feelings.
Me: Yeah, I think you definitely earned your keep last week (which, in this case, means you justified the imaginative energy and memory space I've devoted to maintaining your pseudo-existence), but I know there's always more work to do. Besides, as long as I've already got you here, I might as well use you.
Freud: How very flattering.
Me: Get over yourself. Let's talk about me.
Freud: Are we finally going to start down that "royal road to the unconscious" today?
Me: Okay, if you insist. I do remember that I dreamed last night . . . or maybe it was the night before? I don't remember any of the content, but I do recall the feeling I had when I woke up and what was going through my head as I tried to separate what I'd dreamed from what I've actually experienced.
Freud: Go on.
Me: I woke up feeling anxious (not all that unusual for me!), and thinking that I had let someone down, or that I was in trouble. As if I'd been 'found out,' and the proverbial 'stuff' was about to hit the proverbial fan. I remember that it was only as I walked into the kitchen and was preparing to get my morning coffee ready that the dream situations and problems finally faded, and I remembered that actually the confrontation about which I'd had so much anxiety in the dream had NOT happened, or at least had not happened yet, and really wasn't very likely to happen. I remember that it was something fairly trivial -- a magazine-subscription bill I keep forgetting to pay, not because I don't have the money, and not because I don't want to pay it, but simply because I keep forgetting to take the trouble to dig out the bill, write the check, address the envelope, stamp it, and so on. It's something I'm perfectly CAPABLE of handling, and I WILL handle it, as soon as I set my mind to it, but in the dream it seemed like the most important thing in the world, as if doing that one housekeeping task should be the sole focus of my time and attention, and as if someone, somewhere, was standing over me with a proverbial stick, making sure that I quit fooling around and got serious about being a respectable grown-up.
Freud: And what does this suggest to you?
Me: That I shouldn't eat popcorn for supper at 9 o'clock at night? I don't know! What makes you think it means anything?
Freud: It means something to you, or you wouldn't have told me even this much, or remembered this much, about your dream. On each of your previous visits, I began by asking about your dreams, and each time you vehemently refused to tell me about them, using a combination of humor and rudeness to turn the subject toward something else that you HAD come prepared to discuss. When someone as resistent as you and with as many resources for distraction and concealment as you have suddenly stops resisting, it means you REALLY want to talk about this, no matter how much your conscious mind tries to bury that fact by being outrageously rude.
Me: I hate to say it, but that makes sense. I guess I've been in graduate school too long, eh?
Freud: Is that what this dream was about? Finally finishing your degree, getting your dissertation on "Buffy" and practical theology written and out of the way, so you can start living like a grown-up again?
Me: Hunh? I didn't mean . . . Oh. I see. So, you think that--
Freud: Uh--
Me: Okay, not you: me. I think that maybe this tiny, trivial bill that I just need to sit down and write out, so I can move on with my life, that this somehow represents my dissertation? I know I'm perfectly capable of doing it, when I'm not psyching myself out or being way too intimidated by what my professors say or more often don't say. So is whoever it was that was standing over me, scolding me for my procrastination and so on -- is that supposed to stand for my professors?
Freud: Is that what YOU think?
Me: No. My professors wouldn't go to that much trouble, or take that much notice. And it's not my parents, either, though my father has asked me more than once lately when I'm going to be done with this doctorate and be a full-time professional wage-earner again.
Freud: So, who does that leave?
Me: Me . . . ? What, my super-ego? My parental introjects, or whatever?
Freud: Something like that, it could be.
Me: Well, I do beat myself up a lot, it's true.
Freud: Hmm. Anything else come to mind in relation to this dream?
Me: Well . . . Okay, on one level, I can see how this might be about the conscientious part of me trying to help me move past the hesitation and doubt, etc., and just do what I know I can do, regardless of the drudgery involved. . . .
Freud: But?
Me: But it also feels kind of familiar, in terms of people (and for "people" read "my parents, colleagues, and professors") seeming to regard my work in religion and popular culture as childish, or just fooling around -- not serious scholarly or theological work, at all. Not GROWN-UP stuff. I feel as if I need to be on the defensive much of the time, as if I need to apologize for my work or HIDE my passion and love for it under a load of technical jargon. Kind of like when I was in 6th grade and used to hide the novel or biography I was reading for fun behind the covers of a textbook, so that I could actually FEED my mind and inhabit a more interesting time and place, and hope that the teacher didn't figure out that I wasn't paying attention to her lecture and get mad at me.
Freud: Did that happen often?
Me: What? Me hiding my fun book behind a textbook while I was supposed to be paying attention to something else? Yes, very often. Or, me getting caught and reamed out by the teacher? That happened at least once that sticks in my mind as a very painful, humiliating, angry memory. Not traumatic enough to keep me from sneaking a fun read in future, but more than enough to give me a sense of fear and dread every time I did so. But I learned and remembered more from all those historical biographies and novels by Pearl S. Buck and the like than I did from anything else in 6th grade.
Freud: Hmm, and in your mind, these illicit "fun" books -- from which you learned so much -- are analogous to "Buffy" and "Star Trek" and the other popular entertainments you wish to devote the rest of your scholarly life to studying and writing about?
Me: Yeah, I guess so. But even though I KNOW that this IS worth doing, and may actually be helpful to people like myself who are trying to find some guidance and meaning for our lives, and even though I KNOW that my professors know what I'm doing and have more or less signed off on it, even if they don't entirely understand or respect it, I still have this little panicky feeling left over from 6th grade (and other experiences in earlier and later grades), that what I think and know doesn't matter, and that at any moment some officious bully is going to rip the concealing textbooks away and bawl me out and tell me I'm worthless and ungrateful for daring to be a little bit different from everybody else.
Freud: And how does that make you feel?
Me: It pisses me off! And I'm not going to take it! Even when I was only 11 or 12 years old, I deserved to be treated with a little more respect and dignity. And now that I'm . . . well, considerably older than that, and with a couple of advanced degrees under my belt and a lot of experience trying to help people in the real world, I think I know what's worth doing and what's not. What's worth my time and attention. And I KNOW that "Buffy" and the other pop culture phenomena I study ARE worth it. Now, I just have to prove that in my dissertation, using language which is dull enough and obscure enough to satisfy my professors!
Freud: It sounds as if you know what you need to do, then.
Me: Yeah, I guess it does. And I guess I WANT to do it, too.
Freud: So, we'll talk again, then?
Me: I guess so. "Royal road to the unconscious," huh? Well, well, aren't you the clever little Vienna sausage! And before you say anything, just remember that sometimes a hot dog is JUST a hot dog . . . mouse-droppings and all.
Freud: What was that you mumbled at the end, there?
Me: Never mind! It's just my barely repressed resentment toward even the most helpful authority figures coming to the fore. We can talk about it next time!
Freud: You're back. I wasn't sure you would be. Many people, after a breakthrough such as we had last week, are tempted to 'rest on their laurels,' so to speak, rather than risk stirring up more unsettling feelings.
Me: Yeah, I think you definitely earned your keep last week (which, in this case, means you justified the imaginative energy and memory space I've devoted to maintaining your pseudo-existence), but I know there's always more work to do. Besides, as long as I've already got you here, I might as well use you.
Freud: How very flattering.
Me: Get over yourself. Let's talk about me.
Freud: Are we finally going to start down that "royal road to the unconscious" today?
Me: Okay, if you insist. I do remember that I dreamed last night . . . or maybe it was the night before? I don't remember any of the content, but I do recall the feeling I had when I woke up and what was going through my head as I tried to separate what I'd dreamed from what I've actually experienced.
Freud: Go on.
Me: I woke up feeling anxious (not all that unusual for me!), and thinking that I had let someone down, or that I was in trouble. As if I'd been 'found out,' and the proverbial 'stuff' was about to hit the proverbial fan. I remember that it was only as I walked into the kitchen and was preparing to get my morning coffee ready that the dream situations and problems finally faded, and I remembered that actually the confrontation about which I'd had so much anxiety in the dream had NOT happened, or at least had not happened yet, and really wasn't very likely to happen. I remember that it was something fairly trivial -- a magazine-subscription bill I keep forgetting to pay, not because I don't have the money, and not because I don't want to pay it, but simply because I keep forgetting to take the trouble to dig out the bill, write the check, address the envelope, stamp it, and so on. It's something I'm perfectly CAPABLE of handling, and I WILL handle it, as soon as I set my mind to it, but in the dream it seemed like the most important thing in the world, as if doing that one housekeeping task should be the sole focus of my time and attention, and as if someone, somewhere, was standing over me with a proverbial stick, making sure that I quit fooling around and got serious about being a respectable grown-up.
Freud: And what does this suggest to you?
Me: That I shouldn't eat popcorn for supper at 9 o'clock at night? I don't know! What makes you think it means anything?
Freud: It means something to you, or you wouldn't have told me even this much, or remembered this much, about your dream. On each of your previous visits, I began by asking about your dreams, and each time you vehemently refused to tell me about them, using a combination of humor and rudeness to turn the subject toward something else that you HAD come prepared to discuss. When someone as resistent as you and with as many resources for distraction and concealment as you have suddenly stops resisting, it means you REALLY want to talk about this, no matter how much your conscious mind tries to bury that fact by being outrageously rude.
Me: I hate to say it, but that makes sense. I guess I've been in graduate school too long, eh?
Freud: Is that what this dream was about? Finally finishing your degree, getting your dissertation on "Buffy" and practical theology written and out of the way, so you can start living like a grown-up again?
Me: Hunh? I didn't mean . . . Oh. I see. So, you think that--
Freud: Uh--
Me: Okay, not you: me. I think that maybe this tiny, trivial bill that I just need to sit down and write out, so I can move on with my life, that this somehow represents my dissertation? I know I'm perfectly capable of doing it, when I'm not psyching myself out or being way too intimidated by what my professors say or more often don't say. So is whoever it was that was standing over me, scolding me for my procrastination and so on -- is that supposed to stand for my professors?
Freud: Is that what YOU think?
Me: No. My professors wouldn't go to that much trouble, or take that much notice. And it's not my parents, either, though my father has asked me more than once lately when I'm going to be done with this doctorate and be a full-time professional wage-earner again.
Freud: So, who does that leave?
Me: Me . . . ? What, my super-ego? My parental introjects, or whatever?
Freud: Something like that, it could be.
Me: Well, I do beat myself up a lot, it's true.
Freud: Hmm. Anything else come to mind in relation to this dream?
Me: Well . . . Okay, on one level, I can see how this might be about the conscientious part of me trying to help me move past the hesitation and doubt, etc., and just do what I know I can do, regardless of the drudgery involved. . . .
Freud: But?
Me: But it also feels kind of familiar, in terms of people (and for "people" read "my parents, colleagues, and professors") seeming to regard my work in religion and popular culture as childish, or just fooling around -- not serious scholarly or theological work, at all. Not GROWN-UP stuff. I feel as if I need to be on the defensive much of the time, as if I need to apologize for my work or HIDE my passion and love for it under a load of technical jargon. Kind of like when I was in 6th grade and used to hide the novel or biography I was reading for fun behind the covers of a textbook, so that I could actually FEED my mind and inhabit a more interesting time and place, and hope that the teacher didn't figure out that I wasn't paying attention to her lecture and get mad at me.
Freud: Did that happen often?
Me: What? Me hiding my fun book behind a textbook while I was supposed to be paying attention to something else? Yes, very often. Or, me getting caught and reamed out by the teacher? That happened at least once that sticks in my mind as a very painful, humiliating, angry memory. Not traumatic enough to keep me from sneaking a fun read in future, but more than enough to give me a sense of fear and dread every time I did so. But I learned and remembered more from all those historical biographies and novels by Pearl S. Buck and the like than I did from anything else in 6th grade.
Freud: Hmm, and in your mind, these illicit "fun" books -- from which you learned so much -- are analogous to "Buffy" and "Star Trek" and the other popular entertainments you wish to devote the rest of your scholarly life to studying and writing about?
Me: Yeah, I guess so. But even though I KNOW that this IS worth doing, and may actually be helpful to people like myself who are trying to find some guidance and meaning for our lives, and even though I KNOW that my professors know what I'm doing and have more or less signed off on it, even if they don't entirely understand or respect it, I still have this little panicky feeling left over from 6th grade (and other experiences in earlier and later grades), that what I think and know doesn't matter, and that at any moment some officious bully is going to rip the concealing textbooks away and bawl me out and tell me I'm worthless and ungrateful for daring to be a little bit different from everybody else.
Freud: And how does that make you feel?
Me: It pisses me off! And I'm not going to take it! Even when I was only 11 or 12 years old, I deserved to be treated with a little more respect and dignity. And now that I'm . . . well, considerably older than that, and with a couple of advanced degrees under my belt and a lot of experience trying to help people in the real world, I think I know what's worth doing and what's not. What's worth my time and attention. And I KNOW that "Buffy" and the other pop culture phenomena I study ARE worth it. Now, I just have to prove that in my dissertation, using language which is dull enough and obscure enough to satisfy my professors!
Freud: It sounds as if you know what you need to do, then.
Me: Yeah, I guess it does. And I guess I WANT to do it, too.
Freud: So, we'll talk again, then?
Me: I guess so. "Royal road to the unconscious," huh? Well, well, aren't you the clever little Vienna sausage! And before you say anything, just remember that sometimes a hot dog is JUST a hot dog . . . mouse-droppings and all.
Freud: What was that you mumbled at the end, there?
Me: Never mind! It's just my barely repressed resentment toward even the most helpful authority figures coming to the fore. We can talk about it next time!
determined
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